


Red Rover, Red Rover

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Series: That (In)Human Connection [2]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Default name MC, Exhibitionism, F/M, Filming, Interrupted orgasm, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Yuki really wishes she knew how to summon her demons.Title based on the old schoolyard game.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Asmodeus/Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Asmodeus/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Series: That (In)Human Connection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731373
Comments: 31
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if you don't think Asmo has a custom dildo to commemorate all of his favourites, you're wrong, I don't know what to tell you.

Solomon: If there’s anything inhuman about you, it’s your libido.

Solomon: I honestly don’t understand how you can keep up with him. 

Well, I have a week to recuperate.

Solomon: A week?

Five to seven days, depending.

Solomon: Oh, I see.

Solomon: But still, it’s impressive.

Solomon: . . .

Solomon: Don’t wear him out.

Solomon: I'll be taking my turns soon.

You read through the conversation from a week ago. Underneath his last message are seven from you, each with an independent link. A standing courtesy, although you’re pretty sure he’s only _really_ made use of them twice, if his responding videos are anything to go by.

You adjust Asmo’s camera, clicking through the website to set up the private viewing page. Copy, paste, text. It’ll only be live for the duration of the broadcast, after which it dies a tragically obscure death. He’s invited you to take part in a more public showing, of course, and you can’t say you aren’t tempted. The catch-22 is that you’d like to like to view one of his before you agree, and with the way you’re monopolizing his time he hasn’t been able to broadcast one.

A whiff of perfume floats past your face and your response is Pavlovian. Desire rockets through you, staggering, flush spreading high on your cheeks. There’s a nip at your ear, playful. “Bored of the bed, darling? I completely understand!”

You lean back into a smooth, slender chest. Fingers reach blindly upwards, trace the Renaissance curve of his jaw. He turns into your touch, nosing your hair. “If we don’t have an audience tonight, I can think of some much more _exciting_ places for us to have fun.”

You hum thoughtfully. “With as many mirrors as you have in here?”

“Oooh, I’m glad you agree we make a beautiful picture. And isn’t it fun to see your own face when you come?”

“Mainly I just like seeing you from seven different angles,” you say, turning to press a kiss at his throat.

“Well naturally that’s a given.” But you feel the pleased thrum of him under your mouth as you move down, edge below the neckline of his long, pink shirt. Your hands splay flat against his abdomen, nails scratching lightly.

“Maybe I can’t wait to go somewhere more exciting.”

“Oh I just _love_ how eager you are!”

You lean back to look at him. So much physical perfection in one person is dizzying, and you close your eyes, feel the magnetic pull as your lips meet his, soft and curled with _sinful_ intent. Your palms slide up, wrinkle the fit of airy-soft pink.

He leans forwards, pressing the hard line of his desk into your back. Nimble fingers undo the buttons on your uniform shirt without breaking the kiss; a skillful lover in every aspect. You feel cool air on your shoulders as he edges the fabric down, hands trailing a light touch over your arms, the swell of your breasts. You shiver under his careful attention and he finally lets you breathe.

“Asmodeus,” you whisper, pleading supplication.

His eyes are dark, pink bleeding red. “Little minx. You know I love it when you say my name like that.”

Warm hands come under your thighs, lift you bodily to the desk, laptop shoved haphazardly backwards. Every point of connection is a spark, a promise, and you arch. Your clothes come away under his gentle caress, the curl of his hair tickling your skin as he leans down and licks against a sensitive, stiff nipple.

You’re naked before you realize, hot kisses moving up your collarbone, the edge of your neck. He pauses there, laves his tongue insistently at _that_ spot; a button press that can drive you over when he’s taken you beyond the mapped boundaries of your pleasure. _Sucks_ so that your body trembles, legs opening wide and waiting.

Slender, expert fingers dip between your folds, gather the evidence of many hours experience. So much time spent learning you and he is a master of his craft, able to unravel you easier than breathing. He pauses there, chin on your shoulder, running a tame line against your tender, needy core. And then stops.

“Asmo,” you whine, “what—”

You arch, turning slightly. The laptop is too close and you have to contort, suddenly grateful for the demon’s insistence on developing your flexibility. Your back takes up nearly the whole picture, and there, green blinking significantly in the corner . . .

So he _is_ watching, tonight. 

Heat spears through you. You twitch, know he can feel it against his one still knuckle because he makes a delighted noise against your skin. He licks, the briefest flick of tongue. “I _knew_ you understood me. There’s nothing like sharing pleasure, is there?”

He brings his fist to his mouth, kisses the backs of his fingers.

You clear your throat. “We aren’t normally so close to the camera.”

The grin that suddenly lights his face is obscene. “Why don’t we _show_ our audience how much fun you’re having?”

Anticipation makes you straighten, makes moisture wet the table. You gasp in, a quick breath, wiggle in place as you feel yourself clench. “What do you mean?” But it almost doesn't matter. His mind is lewdly inventive, and whatever he suggests you _want._

He reaches over you, grabs the camera from its mount. His gaze is trained on the feed as he maneuvers it around, focuses on your flushed and breathless face. 

“Isn’t that the most gorgeous expression?” he murmurs.

It’s a strange thing, to be staring into the black and glossy eye of the lens instead of the azalea blush of the lust demon’s. You try to imagine the viewer direct on the other end, maybe positioned as he’d been in his videos, lips slightly parted, hand stroking sure along—

“Let’s show you off. How delightfully _excited_ you are.”

There’s no inflection in his statement, but you recognize the question. He’s asking for permission. You wet your lips, not speaking, parting your legs wider. He turns to you then and you meet his stare, encouraging. 

You’re nearly shaking as he smiles at you, bowed by his approval and the imminent exposure of your most intimate parts. The flush is spreading down your cheeks, over your chest, the slow path of his camera as physical as touch. When it stops you shiver, knuckles white on the tabletop.

“Look at that, she’s _trembling_. So cute.”

He reaches forwards, presses one finger shallowly inside. You gasp as he pumps briefly, slowly, slipping easily to the first knuckle. The second. Then there’s another finger and he’s going in deeper, faster, almost no resistance at all because he already has you _dripping_. His pads drag as he finally pulls out, tracing gently over your lips before he _spreads_. “Such a pretty colour.”

You shudder, cold air rushing in and then he’s drawing back, the loss of his touch making you shift your hips futilely forwards. He closes his mouth over his digits, releasing them with a _pop!_ that echoes in the ragged silence. He leans down, voice low by the microphone. “I wish you could _taste_ her.”

He’s going to destroy you with his lascivious appreciation. You’re almost embarrassed by the keening whine that rises out of your throat, interrupted by the glissando of metal teeth.

Your focus clears abruptly, eyes dropping immediate to the fabric revealed by the slow pull of his zipper. He’s shimmying, hips moving in a mesmerizing pattern to the barely-present background music. A half-turn, a shake of his exquisite ass. You watch the boundary of his clothes, flowing liquid over every exposed centimetre of his sculpted, flawless skin, swallow thickly as his erection springs free. Your concentration is so absolute you’re startled by the brush of his arm against your cheek.

Fabric softener, perfume, florals and the somehow immaculate scent of a spring breeze. You press a kiss against his wrist, nip gently at the cuff of his sleeve.

“So impatient.” But he says it dotingly. “Not that I blame you.”

He lets you keep the fabric between your teeth, pulls his arm gently through it, the blade of his hand ghosting a caress along your jaw. Then he rolls his shirt up, passes it overhead without messing a single hair.

He takes the camera from its place in front of you. Lines himself up and rubs his head slick against the moist pink of your entrance. You buck into him, automatic, and he dances back, out of reach but still connected. Tilts it up to capture the look on your face as you beg. “Asmo, _please_ , I _want_ —”

“What, darling?”

You groan, frustrated, as he avoids another clumsy thrust. “You know what I want!”

“Yes,” he says easily, “but I love to hear you say it.”

“I want you inside me! _Please_ , Asmodeus!”

He licks his lips, and you’re distracted by the red of his tongue as he curls his free arm around you, grabs your ass and drags you close. You’re pierced by the hot length of him, deeply satisfying, cry ripped from your throat.

There’s a light kiss against the shell of your ear as he stretches, fixes the camera back in its place. Gravity rolls beneath you and you clutch at his shoulders. He’s picking you up, walking casually back to his bed with you seated safely on the shelf of his hands. Turns at the edge and drops against 666 thread count sheets.

“A little exposure and you’re already soaking,” he hums, enjoying the bashful nuance of your expression.

“I didn’t realize it would feel like that.”

His grin is hungry, watchful. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Even without the “ _Yes_ ” you whisper he can feel it, the clench of you around him, the quiver of muscles under his fingers. He leans in, kisses you long and deep, applies his tongue to nearly professional effect. You chase the taste of him when he breaks it, see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“Then let’s play to the crowd, tonight.”

You don’t hesitate, trusting. Impatient. “Okay.”

He lights at your prompt response. “Excellent! Someone’s feeling adventurous! Now you need to get off.”

You wilt visibly but obey. He stands immediately, spins you back to chest and rewards you with the perfect bell of his laugh at your ear. “Don’t worry, love, I don’t disappoint.”

His cock is pressing, trapped between your legs, and you reach down, slot him urgently back into your greedy warmth. His hands skim your sides, travel over your ribs to cup your breasts. He kneads in even pressure as he slides out, pace maddening.

“Our audience is so lucky, to see us like this. Stretched out and _gorgeous_. Bodies on display.” He slots back in, the motion suddenly quick. “To see the look on your face when I make you come _apart_.”

 _Slow_ drags, sharp thrusts. Your breaths are coming louder now as he stokes your pleasure like a fire. His voice drops, a tickle against your pulse.

“Who is it who’s watching?”

You frown, confused. “Do you — hmm — not know?”

“I do. I want you to say his _name_ , darling.”

The second you open your mouth he pinches, each nipple between forefinger and thumb, and it comes out of your mouth a throaty cry. “ _Solomon_.”

The sound of those syllables, intruding into your tryst, strange and invasive and thrilling. You feel a flexing in your core, Asmo humming a moan into the top of your spine.  
“And what do you think he’s doing, right now? Do you think he’s taking his own pleasure too?”

You lick your lips, actively panting. “He, _ah_ , he sends us videos, sometimes. Of, _OH_ , of the way he, he, _ah_ touches himself.”

“Have you,” a brief pause, “ told him how we. Watch his videos and, _mmm_ , have sex?”

You throw your head back, feel something arcing up along your spine. Can _feel_ deep blue-yellow eyes on you now, divided by a lens, a screen, a series of streets and doors and rooms. Almost as physical and piercing as Asmo, rutting deep inside you. “I, _ohhhh_ , I haven’t. I never. Never said.”

“And why not love?”

“I. I don’t know.”

“What’s your. Your favourite part of them?”

He switches tactics, one hand dipping, curving down towards your sex. The friction of him is making it impossible to think. Images, broken handfuls, half-obscured by the haze of your mounting bliss. “The. _Ah!_ When he, he, closes his, _ah_ his eyes. Right before his, uh. Before he c-c-comes.”

“Not the, _mmm_ , the main event?”

You shake your head, sweaty strands coiling against his shoulder. “I. That too. I like the mess.” The words are spilling out of you, faster and faster, sentences incomplete. You struggle to make sense of them. “It looks so _good_. Delicious.”

“Oh?” Purring and intrigued.

“But I. His eyessssssss. When. When he feels so good and. _Asmo_. He. _Uhn_. He can’t.”

“Ask him.”

Logic is a far distance from you now. Your thoughts stutter, circling around the base sensation of your impending release. Your legs are trembling underneath you. “W-what?”

“Ask him for his permission.” He kisses, wet, mouth open against your pulse. “To come.”

You’re operating purely on instinct now, Asmo supporting your weight, pressed against his chest. “ _Solomon please._ ”

An almost savage thrust, reaction so pure he couldn’t temper it. “Solomon I want to _come_. I’m. So. I’m so _close_. I can’t. I’m going to. _Solomon, **Asmo** , I—_.”

Asmo takes you dutifully; pulse fluttering, heartbeat racing. A garbled, formless cry coils upwards as he makes good on his promise. As he takes you _apart_. Your vision whites, interrupted by the unsettling flash of clever blue-yellow eyes.

You slump against him and he takes you gently, folding you back onto his lap, a controlled fall onto the bed. Peppers kisses against your shining temple as you return to yourself.

Embarrassment flares the second you can form coherent thought. You. His name. The way it _sounded_ , leaving your lips, raw and shaking and _desperate_. You feel oddly like you’ve welcomed the sorcerer in, a more engaging invitation.

Oh hells, if he were here. . . Well, if he were here you might actually be less distressed, since he would certainly be participating.

The thought brings a flurry of images to mind that pricks at something below your skin before you manage to tamp them down. Your temperature is rising and you squirm against your demon’s thighs, still slick.

“Now, what are you thinking?” Asmo asks suggestively, in the tone of voice that indicates he already has a more than passable idea. You curl around him, pressed tight. A finger travels down his chest.

“Just how much I’d like to return the favour.”

“Oh? Are you going to make me beg him too?”

“I brought the harness,” you say instead of answering, hand drifting down towards his erection. You circle it lightly, peer up from beneath your lashes to his face. He’s smiling, cheeks flushing, eyes dark and focused. “Oh, _I know_.”

He leans back and you go with him, sprawled along his lithe frame. You body is a blanket, skin to skin, heat pressed so tight between you it could be fever. You watch muscle shift as he stretches, reaching. Contort so you can set your teeth against one soft pink nipple. And _bite_.

It’s gentle, not hard enough to leave a mark, but he jerks against your mouth. You apologize with a soft tongue against him, feel a low vibration in his chest. He tugs your head back so you can meet his eyes, nearly black. The neon pink straps are dangling from one hand.

Empty.

“The straps aren’t just for decoration.”

He laughs, whips it in a lazy circle, spinning his finger through the ring. “I had something special in mind.”

He nods to the side table and you notice it for the first time: a dildo already waiting. You struggle into sitting, shiver at the sudden lack of warmth as you extend your arm, nearly fall off the bed before he steadies you with a quick hand around your waist. It’s not quite as long as your usual, but it’s rendered in exquisite detail. The thick ridge of the head, the realistic arrangement of veins. You can recognize something about it, but . . .

“I like the curve,” you say, running your hands along the shape of it. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

He hums, pleased. “It’s nice, isn’t it? It’s Solomon’s.”

You flex, release, and he barely catches it before it falls to the floor.

“Careful, I just cleaned this one!”

“This is _Solomon’s_ dildo?”

He frowns down at the harness, concentration split as he attaches the piece. “Well don’t look so alarmed, love, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Whose? Solomon’s or the sex toys?” You shake your head, trying to dislodge the image of the sorcerer, bouncing on it, the sight of his increasingly familiar cock being pumped in one pale hand . . . “Oh. Oh please don’t tell me this is a copy of his _actual_ penis.”

“I _said_ it was his.” He wiggles out from underneath, drops you back to the sheets. The sweet contours of his smile are unfairly seductive as he looks up at you, takes the backs of your ankles so he can slide the straps up your legs. You breathe out incredulously, skin tingling at his touch. “You want me to fuck you with Solomon’s cock.”

He _shivers_ at the statement, leans forwards to lick a stripe between your legs, framed by two strips of glaring magenta. You wiggle against him, dildo bouncing softly against your pubis. Mesmerized, you track the motion.

“So it’s _your_ turn to cry his name tonight.”

His tongue moves upwards, circles briefly at your clit before he continues, flicks below the harness and then goes unbroken up the silicone length. You watch, breathless as he laps, makes hypnotizing motions with the muscle before he finally sets his mouth over the head. Cheeks hollowing, _sealed_ , as he drops down and takes it in. He’s _gorgeous_ , flush brushed across his face, mouth working. You want to _touch_ , fingers going instant to card through his hair. Scratch lightly against his crown.

He _pops!_ off, theatrical, mouth slick and red. You’re drawn towards him, the colour a beacon, ardent, kissing him a singular fixation. Hands all over him: cheeks, shoulders, back — roaming, clutching, so heavy with want you’re drowning in it.

Asmo separates you with a firm and gentle push. Crawls, _slow_ , a master at setting his own infuriating pace. His knees cage you in, the tip of the dildo ( _Solomon’s cock_ ) trailing lightly down his chest, his stomach. You can’t _wait_.

Propped up on one elbow you come right into his space, bridge the distance and _kiss_ him as you ghost lightly over his back, down the marble curve of his ass. Slip between his cheeks and circle soft against puckered skin. He presses back against your touch, not quite firmly enough to make your finger breach his entrance.

You withdraw and he sighs, whining, wistful. But he waits. Keeps lustful eyes on your face as you drag your finger over his bottom lip. Parts to draw you in, sucking, the vacuum a delicious promise.

You gasp, a soft and aching “ _Oh_.”

He pulls you out, both hands on your wrist, the pressure of his mouth consistent along the full length. Then he keeps moving. Over you, almost straddling just above your abdomen, the head of the dildo passing light against his own erection. Your palm skims his side before you reach down, sketch the outline of him before you move between wide open legs. He’s twitching, expectant, as you caress with easy motions. 

You curl up, lick against his leaking tip as you press your slick finger in.

He bucks up into your mouth. Your free hand goes to his ass, spreading, pushing him closer, deeper, as you work him sweetly open. He stutters above you, gripping your shoulders tight enough to leave the crescent impression of his nails. A soft, musical keening that has heat flaring at your core. You crook inside him, add another digit . Focus your tongue against his glans as you add a third.

“That’s, _ah_ , that’s plenty of preparation.”

Your demon’s eyes are half-lidded, the gorgeous rubellite darkened to garnet.

“Maybe I’ll take you just like this. At least this way I can _drink_ you all down. You know I hate to waste it.”

“Are you jealous, love?” His voice lowers, words a husky purr. “Can’t stand to watch me bouncing on someone else’s cock? Calling someone else’s _name_?”

You shiver. You can already hear the cadence of his voice as he calls for the sorcerer, see the bouncing of his curls against pink skin. Something is unfurling in you, hot and _wanting_. 

Not jealousy so much as _envy_.

“Turn around.”

“Oh?”

But he goes biddably, still straddling. You lean down and bite into the perfect curve of his ass and he starts, shifts slightly off-balance. “Naughty!”

He folds over, reaching, shows himself to best effect. Asshole twitching, cock dangling between his legs. You can’t help yourself. You take him, stroking firmly, press a kiss at his perineum.

Asmodeus has always been responsive. He looses a low moan, casts a look at you over his shoulder. He’s twitching in your hand, so _so_ eager for stimulation. You pump twice more and release him.

He settles back on his calves with the dildo at his stomach, lined against his own erection. Flicks open the bottle of lube and splashes it liberally against the silicone. You sit up, sudden, recapture him and the toy in one hand as you slick the lube evenly.

He’s panting. And you can feel every enticing shudder as he rests against your chest.

You litter kisses on his back, his nape, on every spare centimetre of skin that you can reach with your searching mouth. Your voice is nearly a full octave lower, changed by your desire. “Are you ready?”

The grin he levels at you is sharp. Without warning he’s lifted himself, centred the tip against his waiting hole and starts to work his way down. Your hands glide over his hips, rest on his thighs as he’s seated. And he begins to _move_. His back makes a perfect curve as he arches, presses his ass down into you.

His ragged breathing fills the room, measured percussion against the low noises of the music. You can see him in his full-length mirrors, his lovely face distorted by ecstasy, in every way still immaculate. A flush stains unblemished alabaster; his cheeks, his chest, the almost angry pink of his wildly bouncing cock. He is a vision that must have inspired operas, and right now he is _yours_.

It takes you a minute to remember your words.

“Solomon,” you start, and it’s too quiet. You clear your throat and try again. “ _Solomon_ , this must be what it looks like when Asmo is bouncing on your dick. When he’s clenching around you.”

Asmodeus _shakes_ with pleasure. You take the interruption in his rhythm to force him gently over, pull your knees up and in so you can roll the both of you forwards. He catches himself, heavy on the blankets, already wrinkled and stained with so much fluid you know he won’t be sleeping in them tonight.

“Watching his cock bouncing is one of my absolute favourite things,” you continue, pressing a kiss against his spine. Your hand is winding around, down between his legs so you can pump him as you thrust in perfect synchronicity. “I could watch it for hours.”

His laugh is teasing, broken. “Cruel, _hahhh_ , of you to. _Ah_. Hide it then.” He groans. “Do you, _ah_ , not. Want to. _Unh_. Share?”

“Hmmm, maybe I don’t?” You lean closer against him, cover his back. “Instead, why don’t. You tell Solomon. How his dick feels. Inside you?”

“ _Solomon_.” Your demon says his name with no hesitation. “You feel _Ahhhhmazing_. I could, _oh_ , I could fuck myself, _ah_ , myself for hours on it. I can feel _feel, ha_ , it deeeeeeep inside me. I. _Solomon, I **love** your cock._”

“Who uses,” you say, tempo increasing, “It better?”

“Ha, I wonder. _Mmm_. What he’d say if--if I said. _Ahn_. Said it was. _You_.”

You gasp, heat a combustive force, driving you faster, harder. Asmo warbles your name, drags the syllables for twice their length. His cock is leaking, wet and delicious, stomach convulsing when you brush your hand against it. “I’m, I’m close _love_. _Ah_. Solomon, I’m going to. I’m going to come. I’m going to come on your cock!”

You pull fully out of him, merciless, stop your attentions on his erection. He hisses at you, turns with too-bright eyes and even terrifying he is sublime. You whisper against his mouth. “Give it to me.”

No clarification is necessary. He rolls over, pulls you forwards and _slams_ upwards into you, chasing the interrupted wave of his orgasm. He’s fucking, messy, made wild by his impending release. You make to grab him, fingers clawed, when . . .

You pitch forwards, topple into a mound of pillows that accept the sharp edges of your nails without ire. You’re heart-rendingly, confusingly _empty_.

You get your legs beneath you, spin desperately. Your face is the only one that looks back out of six full mirrors.

The room is empty.

_What the **fuck** just happened?_

You stand, shaking, pacing, trying to clear the haze of ecstasy from your mind enough to focus, frustrated tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. You were so _close, he_ was so close. He. _What the **fuck**_. He’s _gone_.

This is way outside your scope of understanding. You need. You need to. His brothers! Someone. Someone, (probably Satan), will know what to do. You wobble to the door. Realize you’re naked and still wearing a strap-on, shimmy awkwardly out of it and try to find the fastest article of clothing you can throw on and still be allowed to run down the halls.

There’s a chiming. You blink for a moment, think maybe you’ve just gone _crazy_ , when you see your D.D.D. blinking from the tabletop. Right, Solomon! He was watching, he must know—

You’re baffled by the contents of the message. A single video, shared to you and featuring a dick you’re coming to know _intimately_. He sent this _after_ watching Asmo disappear?

You’re disoriented enough to press play.

It’s the same view as always: erection featured prominently, the bare expanse of a pale chest, the bottom half of his face. He starts stroking slow, silent, though you can hear your stream playing in the background. A familiar sight, until “ _Solomon_ ” comes breathy through the speakers and his hand _stutters_. 

And then you can hear yourself, high and tinny, confessing your interest and it’s throwing off his rhythm, he’s going faster and harder, lips parted, actually _panting_. You _cry_ his name, _beg_ him for release and he gasps, your name falling startled from his lips before cum shoots across his torso. And in the midst of your panic, savagely, _inappropriately_ , a shock of electricity strikes deep, sets something low and _burning_ in you.

You stop the video. Suspicion is slowly coalescing into certainty and you dial his phone. Three rings. Five. Seven, and if he doesn’t pick up _right this fucking second—_

“Hello?”

You could crush your device in hand if you weren’t so relieved. “Asmo! Asmo, are you alright?”

“I’m just, _ah_ , fine darling. Did I scare you?”

“Yes! Although if the stream is still on I’m sure you saw me freaking out.”

“Sorry to _hmmmmmm_ abandon you.”

“And I thought you said you never disappoint?” But you’re too glad to hear him to be genuinely upset.

“Well I, _ah_ , think it’s unfair to. _Oh!_ Blame me for _that_.”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll make it up to me anyway. Put Solomon on the phone.”

“He’s. Oh, he’s a little. _Busy_.”

“Asmo. Put him on the phone. Right. NOW.”

“Don’t yell, I. Oh, no. He’s, ah. He can’t comeeeeee right now.”

“Asmo, I swear if you don’t get him—”

“Sorry darling, I have to run.”

A _click!_ and you’re staring incredulously at your screen. He _hung up_ on you.

You hurl the device with all your strength at the nearest wall. And _scream_.

Asmo winces, turning towards the playing video. “We should probably turn that off.”

Solomon slowly opens his mouth; just enough to be coherent. “You trust her not to destroy your room?”

“She wouldn’t dare. Besides, you saw her throw that D.D.D. Everything in there is built to withstand more than a tiny human tantrum.”

“She could still make a mess.”

“Well,” Asmo says, furrowing his brow. Solomon leans back in, all tongue. “I can’t. _Ah_. Say I blame her for. Being upset.”

Solomon maintained that it was an accident, even if on some level he’d probably been animal with intent. He’d been shocked still when the words had left his lips and he’d found himself feeling the slightly acid pull of his magic. The demon had materialized, all ivory and pink, into the empty silence of his bedroom. Stuttered, a swirl of smoke, and fallen graceless to the bed.

“AH!”

The sorcerer at least had the presence of mind to cushion him against gravity, given the exposure of incredibly fragile parts.

“Solomon?” Asmodeus had blinked, hazy and confused, before understanding had shattered across his face. His eyes were blood, _livid_ , as he struggled into kneeling, sweat-damp and hard and _glowing_ with it. “What the _hell_? I was in the middle of—”

“Your other human lover? Oh, I’m well aware.” He thumbed gently over the head of his dick, boldly meeting the demon’s irate stare.

Asmo licked his lips, sliding off the bed. _Dangerous_ with unspent affection. “You—”

There was a ringing, and Solomon paused. Looked down at the D.D.D. in his free hand, fiddling with something before he tossed it at the demon. Asmodeus was surprised enough to grab it, glare down at the bright device in hand. Your name was flashing. The second he picked up Solomon was already on his knees, mouth hot.

It was not a particularly productive call.

Asmo tosses the device on the bed behind him. Reaches down and threads through strands of silver starlight. Solomon is working fervently, tongue a constant roving pressure. Complete suction, wet, laving incessant against his most sensitive parts.

The two of them have held a pact for a long time. They know each other _well_.

“Don’t think, _ah_ , your _excellent_ technique is. _Hmmmm_ , enough to make me forgive you.”

Solomon doesn’t bother with a response.

Your voice is rising from his statick-y speakers. Cursing out the sorcerer, screaming at Asmo. There’s a flurry of activity as you — still naked — throw silk pillows and bedthings in a show of impotent fury.

“You’ve made her so angry at me,” he says petulantly, tugging harder.

Solomon pops off, still close enough to murmur against his cock. “I can send you back, if you’d like to explain properly.”

“Ugh. No thanks. She’s in no mood to, _hah_ , listen to me.”

Solomon huffs a soft laugh, goes back to lavishing attention against Asmo’s twitching erection. His hand comes down to cup the demon’s balls, one finger scratching lightly at the delicate skin between his legs. Inching closer, closer, to his still sensitive hole.

The demon’s rage has cooled considerably, translated. Fire no longer fueled by madness. Solomon is displaying an unusual thirst: touching, pressing, sucking. He hums, watching his manic application. “You’re _Oh_. Different today. So much m-more eager.” Gasps at a particularly effective drag. “I wonder, can you still _taste_ her on me?”

Solomon gags so minutely anyone else would have missed it. Asmo narrows his eyes, _delighted_.

“You _poor_ darlings,” the demon croons indulgently, the soft cadence of his voice a direct counterpoint to his clawing fingers. “You don’t have to — _Ah_ — fight over me, you know. I’m more than, _mmmm_ , capable of satisfying — _ha_ — both of you at once.”

Solomon licks up his shaft, turning just to catch the flaring pink in the demon’s eyes. “Now isn’t _that_ an interesting idea.”

Asmodeus nearly _purrs_ , a deep and carnal vibration. He presses the sorcerer closer, forces himself deep down his throat. Solomon’s eyes tear but he takes him all, every last centimetre, as Asmo fucks into his mouth. The pace is wild, uneven, spit is dripping down his chin and then—

Hot, salty fluid drips down, coats the back of his tongue. Asmo is already dragging him up as he swallows, pressing urgent kisses open mouthed against him. Enjoying the lingering flavour of his own cum.

He drops dramatically backwards on Solomon’s ( _ugh_ ) standard dormitory sheets, hazy with relief. Watches as the sorcerer moves to sit beside him, erection still bouncing gently. Leans over and licks coyly at the tip.

“She has a lot to say about _you_.”

“Oh does she?” Solomon asks, bucking distractedly. He cards his fingers through the growing nest of silky strawberry blonde. “Could you tell me?”

Asmo laughs. “Now, darling, I would never dirty the sanctity of the bedroom by revealing things told to me in passion.”

His lip curls incredulously. “You can see why that’s a little hard to believe when I have a standing invitation to observe the two of you.”

“How _did_ you manage that, anyway?”

He hums a soft, ambiguous noise. “Would you believe she offered of her own volition?”

“I know you too well for that.”

“Well, I may have told her I was jealous of how often she could have you and she very kindly provided a . . . what was it? A ‘balm for my lonely nights’? The first time she sent me the link she said something absurdly vague, in case I wasn’t seriously interested.” He smiles, eyes gleaming. “But you know, I think she just wanted to rub my face in it.”

“Oh? So this was your long-planned revenge?”

“No, actually.” He pauses, rueful. “As it happens, I was enjoying the shows.”

And after pulling something like this, a repeat performance is going to be unlikely. Asmodeus pauses, curious, chasing confirmation for the full scope of such blanking desire. “So what changed?”

“Oh please. You knew what you were doing.”

“Did I?” The lust demon giggles, trails a finger light up his chest. “Well, I admit I wasn’t expecting such an immediate response. This is the first time I’ve sling-shotted so literally from one lover to another.”

“Well you can’t flaunt your good time indefinitely and expect me not to get jealous.”

Asmo flops into his lap, turns his head so his lips are ghosting at the base of his cock, so he is looking up at him under thick and golden lashes. His voice is mischief and promise all in one. “And how did it feel? Watching us? Seeing her inside me while I called _your_ name?”

Solomon shudders, watching as Asmo gifts him a kiss. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been unable to control myself.”

“Well, then. Let’s make the most of this lapse.”

Solomon grins, presses himself against Asmo’s lips. He opens, parts the soft and sinful boundary and lets him distort the flawless curve of his cheek. Holds him wetly, still, as he slips off the bed, moves to kneel between Solomon’s legs. Takes him hungry to the base in a generous role reversal.

Solomon _groans_. To finally have him here, moist warmth wrapped around him. He’s _missed_ him. He bucks and Asmo slides his hands over his thighs, holds him in place with a light but firm touch. 

The demon's head bobs, curls flying as Solomon remains obediently still. Feels a tremor in his legs, his stomach convulsing as the lust demon takes him back to the foothills of his ecstasy.

“Do you think,” Asmo starts, words thick with spit. “You’ll be able to come again?”

“Hmm?”

He presses a kiss against the head, almost loving. “I can still taste it on you, you know.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have time for a shower before you arrived.”

Asmo rolls his eyes. “Yes or no?”

“I’m sure I can.”

Asmodeus smiles, sharp, crawls into Solomon’s lap, dicks pressed together. He’s already growing hard, stamina infernal.

“Oh, you want to _compare_?” Solomon leans into the boundary between neck and shoulder, sucks gently, the sour and slightly-sweet of sweat and skin. There’s the click of a bottle opening, floating plastic squeezing lube into his outstretched hand. Asmo jerks at the first cold press against his ass.

He slides in easily, the demon's earlier arousal not yet abated. Then presses in two more fingers, each digit separated by only a single curling thrust. Pumping in and out, suction loud and filthy. He watches, entranced, as the apotheosis of physical form curls above him, a marble statue made alive. Traces the long lean lines; profile, shoulders, chest. The planes of his stomach, the hard, bouncing pink of his cock.

You're right. The view really is _unmatched_.

Asmodeus straightens on his knees, adjusts to have Solomon at his entrance. Panting with his spiraling arousal and magnificent with it. The sorcerer leans backwards, wraps his hands firm on the demon’s hips. Flexes his fingers to keep himself from _shoving_ him on his cock, desperate for _more._

The glint in rose eyes is the only warning before he drops down, bottoms out immediately. Solomon hisses, the surrounding, tight pressure too sudden after so long limited to the vise of his own hand. He chases instinctively, pelvis leading, as Asmodeus begins to move.

“Darling, you’re going to , _ah_ , wreck my rhythm.”

The demon leans back, posts his hands on shaking thighs. _Forcing_ him tight against the sheets. Solomon bites his lip, watches as Asmo fucks himself on his cock, tracks the scandalous reveal of his own length as it reappears beneath the demon’s immaculate, sinuous form. Every pass provides excruciating friction, the cocoon of his warmth so hot he must be melting.

Asmo takes himself in one hand, lips parted, panting _beautiful_ noise. Strokes as he bounces, less evenly now, eyes closed and head tipped back, exposing the golden ideal of his neck. Solomon refuses to follow suit, drinking in every last detail. Tries to commit this image to memory, ravenous. 

The demon is clenching above him, winding tight, tighter, words a garbled melody. “ _Solomon_ , I’m going to come, you feel so, _Ah!_ So gooooood inside me.” 

He’s reaching the end of his self-restraint but he wants to _see_. Wants to _own_ that moment where the demon comes, see the wreck of his orgasm as it plays across his face. But he’s clenching so hard, so _tight_ , there’s a pulsing in his muscle and Solomon’s vision is being obscured by stars.

Asmo comes above him, paints his chest with thick ropes of white. Mouth open, wet, eyes half-lidded and hazy. The expression is enough to take him over, send him barreling straight past his peak, shooting his release.

He drapes an arm over his face, breathing heavily. Asmodeus giggles, leans down to press sweet kisses at his jaw, his softening cock sliding slowly out. Drops of hot cum are already leaking.

The lust demon hums, _satisfied_. “Ah, the real thing is always better.”

His mind is still hazy from the nearly obliterating pleasure, so it takes him a moment to deduce the implication. _The real thing_. Solomon pauses, propping himself up on one elbow, raking a hand back slowly through his hair. Turns so he can observe the self-satisfied expression of his lover's face. 

“That reminds me,” he says, carefully neutral. “Tell me, how _exactly_ did you get a dildo modeled after me?”

Asmo freezes, caught but unrepentant. He’s saved from answering (for the moment), by a bright chime. Solomon turns to his bedside, frowning, and leans down to check his messages.

Satan: If you value your safety don’t come to school tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Solomon chibi dropped and I suddenly finished this chapter? Wild.
> 
> Also there's a **lot** of swearing in this chapter, so be warned.

Your legs are stiff, arms locked at your sides as you march towards the school. Satan casts a concerned glance your way, places a hand at your elbow to remind you to walk like a normal person. You unlock (a little), and offer a grateful if mumbled, “Sorry.”

He shrugs, turning back to the book in his hand, perfectly capable of walking and reading without any trouble. “It doesn’t affect me at all. But you’re going to be sore if you do that all day.”

You sigh and tug at your hair sheepishly. “I know. Thanks.”

All things considered, the avatar of wrath has been remarkably patient with you. He’d found you last night, _incensed_ , making a remarkable mess of Asmo’s bedroom. You don’t know if he was drawn to your rage (if such a thing is even possible), but he’d been both a) mildly impressed and b) most well-equipped to help you temper it. So you’d ended up imposing on him for the rest of the night.

(You feel a little bad about it now. You’ll have to do something nice for him later).

He hadn’t asked for any details, although he’d gleaned from your half-mumbled rantings that the target of your anger was Solomon, with Asmodeus taking a supporting role. He’d gallantly offered a swift and terrible retribution.

And you’d considered it. More than briefly.

But you’d eventually declined. You didn’t want to ask him to take on your problems, and more pressingly, you were going to get your satisfaction with your own. Two. Hands. 

Besides. He'd helped you hide most of the items for Asmo's skin care regime and you think ( _for now)_ that that can be the extent of his participation.

You enter the courtyard together. Satan goes ahead as you loiter, hoping to catch a glimpse of either curly strawberry hair or a shock of silver somewhere in the crowd. Although frankly if they had any common sense neither one of them would have risked attending today.

“Good morning, darling!”

The voice trills close behind you and you spin just in time to be caught in Asmo’s lively hug. His cheek is pressed against yours, smile wide.

“Asmodeus,” you say, words frosted ice.

He pulls back, tries the adorable frown that has gotten him out of trouble more than once. “Oh, you’re not still mad at me, are you love?”

He makes as if to kiss you and you pull his hair.

“ _Ah!_ Is _that_ what I need to do to earn your mercy?” He asks suggestively, pouting. “But you know better than to mess up my hair in public.”

You’re a statue, your pupils the only point of movement as you glare up at him. “Where. Is. Solomon.”

“ _Ohhhhh_ , how _cruel_! Asking for another man when I’m right here.” He cocks his head at you, cute. “Although I _guess_ I wouldn’t be mad if you wanted to get _better acquainted_ with him.”

You reach for his hair again, fingers clawed, and he jumps back. He raises his hands in front of him in a placating gesture, infuriating smile still on his face. “Oopsie! You _are_ still mad. I guess I’ll try again later.”

“That second try better include an apology somewhere in it,” you say flatly, noting that he’s wearing what is clearly one of Solomon’s spare uniforms. It’s slightly too big for him; not enough to be baggy, but just too long.

You’re disgusted — he looks _adorable_.

“Good morning Solomon. I didn’t see you at breakfast, today.”

You spin on your heel, zeroing in on the speaker. Simeon, somewhere behind you and to the left. He’s answered by an even voice, low and casual despite coming from a man with a near fatal prognosis.

“Sorry, Simeon. I hope I didn’t worry you? There’s just something I have to attend to today, so I need to go ahead.”

There! His hair shines white under the lights, moving rapidly away. You sprint towards him, ignoring Satan as he’s winding his way back to you. You can just barely hear Asmo, positively _gleeful_. “Satan, when was the last time a student was killed on campus grounds?”

A pause. “Roughly 85 years ago. Why do you ask?”

He’s so fast! You’ve called his name at least six times, but if anything his pace is only getting quicker. You dart around corners, dash through the school gardens. You just catch the edge of the red paludamentum of the school uniform as it whips behind a slowly closing door. Like the wave of a flag, taunting you.

If he makes you chase him any further, you really _will_ murder him.

You shoulder the door open, slip on too-slick tile and slide around a corner, your hand slapping against the edge of the wall to keep yourself upright. When you round it he’s just standing there, serene, in the middle of an empty hallway . You clutch your side, panting, and he has the _gall_ to turn around and smile. Your name comes too breezy from his lips. “Good morning. What are you doing here?”

 _Asshole_. Red crowds your vision and you straighten slowly, deliberately, try to force your breathing back to normal. Your fists are clenching; autonomic. You school your expression, try to smooth the tensing lines in your face, the glower in your brow. Stalk up to him and pretend you aren’t so livid you could burn a hole straight through his smugly easy face.

Then take a deep breath so you can order your thoughts.

“Good morning, Solomon. I’m glad I caught you, I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Did you?” Nothing changes in his face, but you swear you can hear the edge of amusement.

Your fingers flex. _Hell_ , you want to hit him. Instead you tilt your head, pull on a smile that you hope is more politely bland than murderous. “I did! You know, it’s funny. You were walking away so quickly it was like you were trying to avoid me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were trying to get my attention.”

“Really?” The corner of your eye might be twitching so you blink. Once, long and slow. “I called you a number of times. _Loudly_.” 

“I guess I didn’t hear you.”

He’s _definitely_ laughing at you. You step closer, arms crossed behind your back, fingers digging to keep yourself from lashing out. “Then I must be very lucky that you just stopped. Here. In this suspiciously empty wing of the school.”

“You must be,” he agrees.

You pause, count to five in your head and try to remember all the reasons you didn’t want Satan to rip him apart. It’s strangely hard to think of _any_ , right at this moment.

“So,” you start. Deliberate and controlled. “About last night.”

He smiles, interest catching in his eyes, “Did you want my thank you in person?”

Well, you did your best. Frankly — what was it, a minute? — was longer than you thought you’d last. You drop all pretense, letting the vicious, _consuming_ anger shake itself through your bones. The outline of your smile inverts.

“You absolute _bastard_.”

He only tilts his neck, the weak pantomime of innocent confusion ruined by his motionless expression.

“I was _so_ close. We were **literally** right in the middle of things and you _stole_ him.”

He shakes his head, tone still lightly conversational. “I didn’t steal him. I believe we’re actually sharing.”

You sputter, indignant. “Then it was my _turn_!”

“Oh, you’ve had more than plenty of those.” He shrugs, loose and unguarded, totally unafraid, unapologetic. And — you notice with ramping fury — he looks _fantastic_. He’s absolutely glowing with a full night of uncompromised satisfaction, eyes and skin bright with it.

 _Bastard_.

He’s pushed you past the last limit of your patience — the inevitable conclusion to this frustrating exchange. You rear back and punch him, _hard_ , on the arm, and at least that actually elicits _something_ , even if it looks infuriatingly like mild surprise. But the physical pressure of it, the mild burn in your muscle. It feels. So. _Cathartic_.

You punch him again, and again, vaguely conscious of the fact that he has _magic_ and you most certainly _do not_ and deciding that you’ll take your chances anyway. And then he’s arrested you just above the elbows and you’re just beating at his chest and _Hell_ he looks so obnoxiously self-satisfied. You’re screaming profanities at him now, calling him all number of terrible things that only seem to make him more amused. The smug little dickhole. 

You’re getting breathless, flushed, the longer you continue this pointless assault. Wretched with indignant outrage and righteous with it. You stop to breathe and he takes the mostly silent reprieve, bending slightly to look into your reddening face. “Do you feel better, now?”

“NO!”

He chuckles, leans in closer. “Would you like me to let you go?”

“Will you, if I say yes?”

“That depends on what you’ll do if I agree. Do you still want to fight?”

“No,” you say. An obvious lie. You might not be quite on the cusp of irreversible bodily harm no matter how outraged you are (and it is currently surpassing any threshold you’ve met before), but you’re already imagining the way your slap is going to land across his face.

He doesn’t look like he believes you, but he doesn’t look distressed, either. There’s something challenging in his gaze that you aren’t rational enough to identify. He’s barely a breath from your face, now, and this close your eyes are drawn downwards, suddenly _very_ aware of the shape of his lips. The way they’d looked when he’d said your name in his video. The way it had _sounded_.

And why does he smell so fucking _good_?

“Okay.”

For a shameful second your vocabulary has deserted you, and it takes you a moment to put meaning to the word. He’s already released you, taking a step out of your space. Suspicion wars with rage as you glare up at him, hands still curled into fists. Remain still as you let your heartbeat settle.

“So,” he starts, like you’ve been in the middle of a normal conversation, “What can I do for you?”

You take a light step forwards. Another. And then you grab the lapel of his jacket and **shove** him back against the wall. Even then surprise only morphs to a glint of brightness, razor sharp. It distracts you, brings a niggling thought bobbing to the surface.

“Why did you send me that video last night?”

He smiles, like the answer should be obvious.

“Because I wanted you to see it.”

He tastes like copper.

You cut your lip on his teeth when you force him down, _crush_ his mouth against your own. Everything is blood and tongue and biting. _Bruising_. You’re frustrated and unsatisfied and you take, take, _take_.

He reaches down, presses his thumbs into the soft flesh of your cheeks and matches your force with enthusiasm. Just as hungry, if not nearly half as desperate.

You let go of his jacket, tug on his _stupid bolo tie_ — who even wears those — crook your finger under the ornament (it _must_ be magical, there’s no other explanation) so that you’re flush against his throat. Distantly, you hear the ring for the first period bell.

He releases you just long enough to snap his fingers, and a door along the wall creaks open, jarring in the emptiness.

You don’t break the kiss. At this point your senses have converged on the heat of him, immersed in his touch, his taste, indifferent to the larger world. He shifts, starts edging to the side and you follow, gasping. Every breath a shock of cold before you’re burning again, trying to get closer, closer, fingers _digging_ against his skull.

You’re tearing at his hair, tie abandoned, stumbling in your steps but he’s guiding you, firm, upright, and then. There’s a slam, a _click_ as the door closes, his hands still hot on you, keeping you pressed close against his hips. Moving back and back until he hits the edge of a table and you nearly fall into his chest. You’re already fumbling with the buckle of his uniform jacket, working at brass buttons before you realize what you’re doing.

“You really _are_ frustrated, aren’t you?”

You glower at him, skill with his clothes still somehow sure. Lean forwards and press your thigh too firm between his legs. He sucks in air, sharp, not quite a hiss.

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Don’t you want me to take some responsibility?”

The urge to hit him again is rising urgently. Instead you arch up, _bite_ the lobe of his ear and tug. He follows, startled, digs into your hipbone like he’s anchoring. There’s a twitch against your leg, the promise of swelling.

“I’m serious. If you don’t shut up I’m going to _leave_.”

That’s a gamble, of course. You still _need_. You’d been too angry last night to come to any resolution and right now he’s here, under your hands. Warm and alive and _wanting_.

He meets your stare evenly, smile slow, casual, blood smeared half over his mouth. You can only imagine what a mess you must be.

But his lips are pressed together. Closed.

 _Fuck him_. Fuck his handsome face, his suddenly biddable behaviour, his hot, skillful mouth. Fuck him, fuck him fuckhim— You’re going to _fuck_ him.

You pitch towards him, hands roaming wild over his chest, fisting in his shirt and _yank_ him down towards you. He catches you this time, takes you conscientiously between his palms to keep you from injuring yourself again. You’re half between his legs, your other knee riding up, posting on the wood of the table and trapping his open jacket against the surface. He huffs — an almost laugh — releases you just briefly enough to let his sleeves slip over his arms and then _takes_ you back into his orbit.

 _Shit_. You could suffocate like this and you might not even notice. Everything is only wet noise and frantic touch, bodies _seamed_ together so close you could disappear. You’re awkwardly straddling his thigh, weight pinning him, leaning into him just enough to apply pressure at the apex of your legs. You circle down, mindless, even as you rut your thigh against his growing erection and he makes a _noise_ in the back of his throat. One of his hands reaches for your waist, curls over your hipbone and _squeezes_. Your. Ass.

You gasp, jerk into the hard edge of his hip and he shifts, efficient, to the edge of your jaw. You deliberately swallow a whimper, pelvis still working over him. “Solomon.”

He hums something against your skin, _sucking_ , distracting patterns tracing at the nape of your neck.

“Solomon.” A shudder as he hits that point behind your ear. You drop your hand between your bodies and _grab_ his crotch. He starts, wrenching backwards, eyes electricity and surprise. “Stop.”

Both hands immediately go back to the tabletop as he leans away from you, searching. You pause, try to keep the breath you release from sounding too much like a sigh. You still have him firm in one hand, are still mounted on his leg but you’re sliding slowly off.

You get your feet beneath you, fingers trailing lightly over his pants as you release him. There’s a twitch under your touch but he doesn’t make any move to follow. Obedient.

You don’t trust him — not after that trick last night — but. You can work with that.

You step back and he lets you go. You’ve been delayed all night and the better part of this morning; you can wait a little longer. The pounding in your chest is settling to a low thrum, even if your arousal has only flared. You eye him, appraising.

“Take off your pants.”

He cocks an eyebrow but his hands are already sliding to his buckle. The metal click of it draws your eye, has you focused squarely on the soft black of his boxers, spilling uncomfortably from his waistband as he draws the fabric down. Stops with the legs gathered around his knees, belt trailing to the floor. He looks up at you, question clear on his face, and you consciously resist the urge to lick your lips. (You still taste blood).

“That’s obviously not enough.”

Something shifts, smug, in his gaze, but he continues complacently, reaches the ground and kicks his pants off. You watch it land in a heap off to the side. Clearly he’s unconcerned with dirt but. _Magic_.

You lean back on the first row of desks. Cross your arms over your chest as he waits. “And your shirt.”

His fingers pause at the neck of his bolo tie. Blue-yellow eyes cant upwards, regarding you carefully, too bright in the low light.

“What?”

“How do I know you aren’t going to leave anyway?”

“You don’t.” You shrug your shoulders. “Now, strip.”

He slides out of it — nowhere near approaching the ethereal grace of one of Asmo’s stripteases — but his fingers are sure, every motion efficient and dignified. The planes of his chest are exposed in full-spectrum colour, revealed beneath the parting halves of emerald green.

You suck in a breath. This is very, _very_ different from the grainy blue-light images you’ve previously enjoyed. Your fingers twitch against your arms and you resist the urge to reach forwards and just . . . _touch_.

He leans back against the surface, hands resting besides his thighs. Matches your obviously eager stare with vain self-satisfaction. His anticipation floats in the air between you, almost tangible.

You can’t help it. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and— You wince, the cut already forgotten.

He doesn’t miss the motion. He stands, walking silently over until he’s just in front of you. Dips down like he’s going for another kiss and you almost close your eyes in tacit approval but . . . The most gentle pressure lands instead. His finger trails over your bottom lip and it’s a strange, prickling heat, stinging, angry, and then. Nothing. You reach up and inspect it. Your cut is gone.

“Thank you,” you say, curt and surprised. He opens his mouth, closes it. Then smiles and shrugs at you. You consider him. “You can talk again, you know.”

“Oh? How _generous_.”

You have to physically resist the urge to roll your eyes, electing to narrow them instead. You’re already on the verge of regretting this, but . . . “I want to hear you.”

His eyes glint knowingly. “Are you hoping I’ll repeat myself?”

“Well,” you start, feigning synthetic disinterest, ignoring the memory of his startled gasp as it plays dimly in the background of your mind, “the audio quality of the video was a little too weak to make a good text alert.”

He actually laughs, disbelieving. “I see. I’ll do my best to be clearer then.”

“Good.”

You catch him around the neck, draw him to you close enough to whisper against his lips. “Get on the table.”

He moves immediately, hops backwards in one smooth motion. No hesitation.

Oh. You _like_ that.

You tilt your head, trace your eyes up his refined physique. He smiles blandly, leans back and opens his legs, spreading. “Well? What would you like?”

You make a show of thinking about it, swiping a smear at the corner of your mouth that’s just beginning to dry. Lick your finger clean. He remains utterly still, betrayed only by the white press of his fingers as they twitch against wood. _Interesting_.

“I want to watch.”

“You want a live show?” He huffs, mildly bewildered. “I’d have thought you’d be sick of this by now.”

“Oh? Are you sick of _our_ shows?”

It’s microscopic. The tiniest tell, the curl of his pinky back into his palm. Of course. He’s studied too long and too hard to let his face evince his feelings. You never would have seen it if you hadn’t been so focused on him now, half-naked and tantalizing, drinking in every exposed expanse.

“Of course not. Your shows are much more . . . engaging.”

You lean forwards, ass not leaving its seat. Your voice grows lower, heated as much by arousal as irritation. “If your shows weren’t _engaging_ we wouldn’t fuck to them.”

“High praise,” he murmurs. His hand reaches direct to his waistband, hips thrusting forwards slightly as he jerks his boxers down just far enough. His erection springs forwards, sharply-defined and familiar. You drag your gaze over the left leaning curve, remember the way you’d stared daggers at his dildo and tried not to imagine the way it would feel. A shock of shivering heat lights in your core as you remember the weight of it in your hands.

You want to watch him fuck himself on his own cock.

His palm skirts to his shaft, takes firm grip. _Dry?_ Starts with an easy, confident pass from base to head.

You pop upwards, lunge and cover his hand with your own. You _swear_ you can hear the gasp of his swallowed surprise. “No. Do it like you do it in your videos.”

“This might shock you,” he says slowly, “but I didn’t think to pack lube in my school bag this morning.”

You straighten, notice that the skin of his cock is shining slightly. Oh, _naturally_. He has a spell for this too. Your eyes flick to his, holding and sharp. “That’s not what I meant.” You bend, finger dragging down his thigh. Edge under elastic and _snap_. He’s a statue beneath you, too still to be breathing. “You haven’t finished stripping.”

You fall back, the edge of the desktop catching you. The second you’re out of his space his thumbs hook under the fabric, wrenching them to the floor. He steps carefully out of them, tossing them in the same direction as his pants.

“You can keep the shoes.”

“So considerate.”

He settles again, hand on his cock before he’s fully seated. Keeps his eyes trained fully on your face even as you let yours . . . wander.

But that’s hardly your fault. He’s naked and spread out before you, tall and precise and so much _more_ than you’ve ever seen before. Your eyes are raking over him, _devouring_ , eager to commit the attractive tableau of him to memory.

It’s a slow rhythm to start, it always is. Brief pumps that follow in three quarter syncopation. The head is bouncing, slightly, already leaking fluid onto his curved purlicue. You watch the drip of it, down the back of his hand, splashing somewhere on the skin of his thigh. Wasteful.

He alters his motion, focusing his hand in a curling grasp around his head. Caressing, twisting, before going back to the efficient up and down. Each set has his eyelids fluttering, gorgeous, as he strains to keep his neck upright. It’s even more beautiful than watching the way his corona pops just out of his fist, the flare of it jumping back into view.

His measures have sped up, spurred by your ardent attention. It’s all slick and sound, a messy melody and his head is starting to drop, eyes struggling to stay open and you can see the way he’s tensing—

“Stop.”

There’s no stutter, no drawn out whine, no dithering in his movement. He _stops_ , perfect and precise. You track the way his stomach shudders, hear the hitch of a careful, choked off breath. Watch the colour disappear in his face as he finally closes his eyes. You step forwards, whisper-silent, a hunter about to spring her trap.

His lashes spring open when you trail your finger just at his head, gather his pre-cum and smear it between finger and thumb. He jerks beneath your touch, cock nearly arching into the promise of your hand. You hum, approving, ghost a breath against the tip and watch as it responds, spontaneous.

He meets the intensity in your gaze when you look up and stick both fingers in your mouth. There’s the tiniest tremor: a slight shake that’s outlined in his shoulders, a showy bobbing in his throat as he suppresses a reflexive swallow.

His control is starting to unravel.

You wonder how far you’d have to push to make it _shatter_.

He makes no move as you work upwards, blowing air in a teasing line from pelvis to sternum. Dip to graze your teeth lightly along the edge of one collarbone. Lick, just barely, at the line of his jaw.

But you can feel the immense tension in his muscle, the sheer force of will it’s taking to sit meek and docile while you ply him at your own amusement. You rear back, a breath away, just to take in the flushed expression on his face. _Fuck_. You can see why Asmodeus was so willing to risk your grudge last night. He’s so handsome, so composed. You want to turn him to a _mess_.

You cradle the back of his neck, run your thumb gently against the hairs at his nape. Let him relax into the touch before you snatch him forwards, take his mouth in a kiss that’s incongruously sweet. He’s been so _good_ so far. 

Your other hand wanders, a finger marking the path from ear to pulse, pulse to shoulder. Palm flattening over the cut of muscle there, exploring the definition of his biceps, his forearms. Circling light around the wrist, stilled, at his delightfully twitching erection. You flip, let your fingers crawl into the well of his palm to discourage his grip. He lets go, dick bumping lightly back against his abdomen.

You break your kiss, lift his hand to your lips and press against his skin.

“If this is the pace you’re taking, should I assume we’re skipping class today?”

You wrench him back with the hand fisted in his hair. Dive towards him and _bite_ at the join between shoulder and neck. “Shut up.”

“I just meant—”

You bite down harder, just shy of drawing blood and he cuts off into silence. You reward him for his compliance, gently laving your tongue against the marks. “Shhhh.”

You move upwards, suck dark little circles on him to match the ones he audaciously stamped against your neck. Nip at his jaw and continue. You harbour no illusions — he could easily magic them invisible but. You like knowing that they’re _there_.

You keep going. Back down his throat, over his chest. Trace a map across his skin with your mouth, a thorough study of his topography. Enjoy the interrupted measure of his breathing as your fingers wander, a touch so slight it might just be suggestion. Over his arms, his legs. Wandering closer and closer to his cock without ever getting close enough.

He trembles when your hair drops; the softest tickle against his sensitive, _sensitive_ skin.

You reach down, press a kiss at the sharp edge of his hip. From this close, this clear, you can see the small scattering of moles that dot his skin, tiny constellations that you’re sure Asmo has traced in idle appreciation. You pause, connect the dots with uneven lines.

He lets out a breath and it _shudders_. His hand trails just against your shoulder and you jerk away.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

He shakes his head, but you can see mischief playing in his eyes.

“If you want it, you have to ask.”

He doesn’t waste time — you’re learning to appreciate that about him. “Let me touch you.”

“Hmm. Should I?” You tap your finger against your lips. “I don’t think I heard the magic word.”

“Abracadabra,” he says, just to be a brat.

You sigh, the epitome of tragic disappointment. “I’m afraid that wasn’t it.”

“ _Please_.” His fingers twitch, hands pressed obedient against the surface. “Please let me _touch_ you.”

You gasp against the sound, the sincere edge in his words. “Well, since you asked _so_ nicely.”

You dance out of range of his reaching hands, light _tsk_ under your breath. “Wait. Stand up.”

He unfolds dutifully. Steps towards you and you fall back, let your weight be caught by the first desk. You shuffle backwards, cross one leg over the other and stare up at him. “Get on your knees.”

He drops, urgent, and you extend your leg, let him take it eager into his waiting palm. He’s _grinning_ up at you, pressing kisses along the soft skin of your ankle, moving upwards at a glacial pace. The flesh of your calf is gripped tight by his hands, face pressed so reverent against your shin you feel like you’re about to be _devoured_.

Heat is crawling up your extremities, going direct to the spot between your legs, consuming. Your underwear is becoming uncomfortably damp but you refuse to shift, refuse to let him see you in anything less than complete control. 

It’s a sweet eternity. Lips gentle against your skin but still so hot, consuming. Every point tinder to your flame. You shift your legs wide, wider, accommodating his frame as he climbs. He stops, pauses at the edge of your uniform skirt and looks into your face. You don’t say a word, only lift the fabric and he _dives_.

His tongue is already working at the barrier, soaked through before his first drag. Licking and sucking, the fabric muting him just enough for you to maintain your composure. He finds the nub of your clit and _takes_ it, draws it into his mouth and suddenly you can’t remember why you cared about restraint.

“Take them off.”

He doesn’t bother with stupid questions. His fingers hook immediately at the openings of the legs, _wrenching_ them down as you shift slightly up. Damn, he’s going to stretch them, but. You can punish him for it later.

He lunges back in, like a man possessed. Tongue and lips _tasting_. You let your head roll back, let your eyes flutter. You can’t decide if his fanatic devotion is a result of making him stop just at his edge, aren’t sure if he’s trying to make some point but.

He’s very. _Very_. Good.

Threads of silver wind over your fingers and you _grab_ , pull him tight against you and ride him blindly. Every pass, every intimate, eager stroke is making your nerves _sing_ and _fuck_. If he’s this good with his mouth you’re starting to feel you can’t even really fault your demon for being tempted to stay the night.

His fingers join in the performance, sliding easy into your warmth. Fucks you fast and skillful, something _magical_ that manufactures a universe behind your eyes, maps out the points of your pleasure in shimmering whorls that leaves you scrabbling, untethered. Keeps going even as you’re dripping down his face, cheeks and nose and chin wet with the evidence of his accomplishment.

He continues at a diminished pace, lapping as you tremble around him. Fuck. _Fuck_. You wrest him off you and he nearly snaps with the force of it, meeting your hazy gaze with pompous satisfaction. You lean down, push sweat-slicked strands off his forehead and gift a kiss at his temple.

You look, consider the mess of him. Shining with slick, eyes bright with vindication, cock red and neglected between his legs. He’s _so_ much better in person. You trail over his nose, his lips, drop decided off his chin and lift your finger to your mouth so you can taste yourself. You should have swallowed your pride and invited him to a threesome _ages_ ago. 

“Lie down on the desk.”

You step off, find your legs shaky and his hands come just above your knees, keeping you steady. You fold, lean over him and press through his shoulders to the floor. “You’re supposed to _ask_ , remember?”

He smiles at you, leans towards one thigh and kisses at your already dripping arousal. “I did.”

You let him lick a stripe inside your leg before you push him off. “Then ask again.”

But he releases you, shifts back pleasantly and you step out of his space.

“Lie down on the desk,” you repeat.

He looks over his shoulder at you but he stands, going to your vacated spot and lying back, legs dangling. He props himself up on his elbows, watching you.

“I thought I said lie down?”

“You did,” he agrees easily.

You frown, walk over and push his chest so his back is flush against the wood, fully aware that you’re playing direct into his hands. You let your palm linger, warmth and want.

“Hands above your head,” you say, withdrawing. He stretches out, wrists crossed above him, shifting to lie lengthwise over the surface.

“Now,” you start, crawling slowly up, knees meeting the hard wood, “stay _still_.”

You stay low, gaining ground a centimetre at a time, feeling the tip of his cock brushing over your chest, your stomach as you advance. Feel it disappear beneath the fabric of your skirt before you pin it beneath you, settle your weight against his twitching, eager length. Spread your palms over the smooth lines of his torso, reach up, up to catch his nipples between your fingers. He jerks and you _pinch_.

“I said, stay still.”

You circle over him, feel him slipping easy against your folds. He gasps a breath but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle. So _good_. You hold, stationary, as you begin to _explore_.

His chest, his neck. You caress him between your hands, every progression shifting you slightly against his dick. Trapped and at your mercy. Move slowly up his triceps, press into the wells at his joints. Hear something impatient in his throat as you arch up, let your chest rest against him, still hidden beneath the heavy material of your jacket. Follow the lines all the way back down, capture his face and drink in the sight.

You thought you could be satisfied with his videos but _hells_ this is so much better. The colour, the composition, the pure, addicting _heat_. He never showed the full picture of his expressions before and you watch in fascination every tick, every minute uncontrolled reaction that he surrenders to your touch.

You pull him slightly up, bend halfway to reach him and steal his breath away.

“Beg,” you murmur against his lips.

“What?”

“I’ll fuck you if you beg.” And you’re sure you’re giving too much of yourself away, sure he can see how much you _want_ it. He could torture you forever if he felt like playing games.

“Please. Fuck me. _Fuck me_ , I’m _begging_ you.” And he’s panting just a little, still too composed but not to standard, and. He’s fraying at the edges, you can see it, rare and beautiful. He’s _letting_ you witness his discomposure. You feel the strange thrill of cyclical conclusion, from begging him on camera to having him begging _you_ and you lean down and kiss him again, bizarrely tender. Reach between your bodies and slide him slowly, perfectly inside.

He gasps against you and you squeeze your eyes shut. Hold yourself immobile against his face as you press back, seat your ass flush against his pelvis and feel the friction of him, his slight curve reaching parts you’ve never felt before. _Oh_.

“Do you usually take direction so well?”

“No,” he says honestly, “but I was willing to. To compromise today.” His head falls back as you roll against him, tight. “Consider it an a-apology.”

You hum, fist a hand in his hair and force him slightly up. He hisses, twitching inside you. “Were you this compliant when you were fucking Asmo?”

“Not, _ah_ , not quite.”

You’re not sure you believe him, but it might not even matter. You’re already here, joined, watching him pliant and submissive. So _willing_ to please.

You roll back into sitting, get your knees and toes beneath you in an uneven, lazy motion. And then you start to _move_.

It’s so _different_. He’s thicker through the middle, a stretching girth that’s unfamiliar but it makes you _shake_ , half-moans falling from your lips as you ride him. His breath is hitching, breaking, and he’s starting to make _sounds_. Things you’ve never heard from his videos that have you falling on him harder, faster, chasing the discovery of this muted melody.

You post yourself up with one hand, run the other over the generous swathe of his naked skin. Twist and scratch and fondle, turning his body to your playground, your instrument, learning every pound of flesh like notes you can press to change his refrain. He’s unraveling the wilder you get, becoming vocal, more open and exposed.

You could study him forever.

You contort, fold yourself in half so you can capture some of his music and he jerks upright, hands snapping to your shoulders, running down your back towards your waist. And you’re going to scold him, you _are_ , tensing your stomach so you can break away but he’s leaning, forcing you back so that your legs slip against the surface of the desk and the world drops out from under you. You’re crushed against him as he slides you off, his hands are on the bare skin under your thighs, lifting. You flail, pitch forwards and grab his shoulders to keep yourself from falling. He’s reversing your positions, sliding you onto the surface, wood cool on your skin.

This close, heated and open, you can fully appreciate the beauty of his eyes; a shoreline, ocean and sand, buffeted by roiling waves.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” But your ire is unconvincing in the softness of your voice, wrecked and panting.

“Sorry, but I can’t handle any more.”

And then he’s pistoning into you, fast and rough and still somehow consistent. One hand comes up to paw at the flopping fabric of your skirt, rucking it messy into your waistband. You _dig_ into his shoulders, moor securely to his balance and let him _destroy_ you. And you feel like a star, exploding, heat and force and gravity, and you think, near delirious, maybe you’ll only fuck his face _two_ more times as reparation. 

The broad lines of his shoulders, the precise lines of his neck. You arch, desperately fighting to hold yourself upright so you can keep watching him. The concentration on his face, the furrow in his brow. The fractured glimpses of his body _calling_ to you, a language that you’re already learning to decipher. 

He _hits_ something inside you and you’re _crying_ his name, too loud, almost screaming. Your limbs are going numb, blissed out, _you’re so close_ and he’s holding you up, still panting slightly but watching your face with an expression that can no longer hide the curl of his smirk. 

And that’s when the door bursts open.

The two of you start. Turn in unison to see the large figure towering in the doorway, wings spread and tipped in gold. Lord Diavolo, for some reason, has come to interrupt.

You clench against Solomon and you can see the way his breath stutters. His hand on your hip flexes, digs in, tensing as he fights to keep his breathing controlled.

The demon prince takes a few quick strides inside, and you’re suddenly very conscious of the way your skirt is sitting hiked around your waist, underwear dangling off the edge of a desk from whenever it was thrown. Solomon, you notice with irritation, is suddenly remarkably clothed again.

Diavolo is close enough now to see where the two of you are joined and his gaze dips down, appraising. You _shudder_ under the bright gold of his eyes, feel yourself clamping down on Solomon’s cock, muscles contracting. 

The sorcerer quivers. Dips his head and barely manages to keep himself upright. He clears his throat and manages a, “How can we help you, Lord Diavolo?”

The demon prince smiles at the two of you, eyes glinting. “I was told that my human exchange students were going to kill each other. I take it this concern was unfounded?”

“I was _going_ to kill him,” you say, barely managing the words. “But as you can see, we’re in the middle of our conflict resolution.”

“Ah, good! I was worried, you know.” Black shadow curls outwards and then he’s returned to his regular uniform. There’s another sound, a scuffling, at the door, and you see Lucifer rounding the frame.

Diavolo grins, turning to him. “Lucifer! I found them, but it’s alright. They’re just applying human conflict resolution.”

The glower on Lucifer’s face is impeccable. He comes closer, sees the full extent of your compromising position and then his expression transcends visibility.

Another audience for your intimacy is too much. You’re nearly convulsing around Solomon, nails pressing in sharp crescents at his shoulders as he finally loses the last thread of his self-control. His forehead meets the sharp line of your clavicle as he comes deep inside you, pumping, hot and thick. The warmth is filling, _delicious_ , and whatever’s being said is washed away on the waves of your orgasm.

You blink blearily, trying to come back enough to focus on Lord Diavolo’s next lines.

“But I suppose I should reprimand you for skipping your first class. Couldn’t you have waited until perhaps your lunch break to resolve things?”

Lucifer sighs, tight. “Lord Diavolo. _No_.”

Solomon smiles amicably at the two of them, lips together. You’re not sure when he straightened up. “I’m sorry for concerning you two. But as you can see” (another _look_ from Lucifer that would dissolve an ordinary man) “everything is perfectly all right.”

“Excellent!” Diavolo beams, clapping his hands together. “In that case, I’ll let you finish your intercourse. But please make sure you attend your second period classes.”

“Of course, Lord Diavolo,” you say in unison, your voice noticeably shakier.

Diavolo turns on his heel, makes ready to leave and for a moment it looks like Lucifer is going to _stay_ , eyes bright and _burning_ , but the prince takes him by the arm and drags him along. “Enjoy the rest of your day!”

You echo the sentiment, face aflame, lips parted as your heartbeat returns to normal. You moan, cover your face with both hands.

“You didn’t lock the door?” You ask, not quite able to inject your voice with annoyance while you’re still coming off your high.

“I did,” Solomon murmurs, lips ghosting along the line of your neck. “Although I doubt that mattered once Lord Diavolo took his demon form.”

“Was I too loud?” You cup the back of his head, leaning away to give him easier access.

“Maybe,” he admits. “I’ll cast an area of silence spell, next time.”

“Next time? I don’t know if it would be wise to do this again.”

He’s sucking, marking your skin in a lazy path. “Why not?”

“We’ll probably be caught again?” you say incredulously, pulling him back to look him in the face. He only smiles, innocent.

“But isn’t that what you like?”

You stare, searching. He would make a killing if he gambled, you can’t read his face _at all_. Too bad that isn’t true of the oldest demon brother. You shudder, remembering the horrifying _promise_ in Lucifer’s eyes as he’d turned away.

“Let me stay in your room tonight.”


End file.
